


Sherlock Season 5 (My Version)

by MarvelNerd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Danger Night, Drug Use, Heavy Angst, Irene Adler Ships Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mutual Pining, My own season, Sherlock Season 5, Sherlock is a good dad, Sherlock's Violin, Slow Burn, john is a good dad, miss me, sad waltz, season 4 was a mess, surprise, trust me - Freeform, youll love it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-11-04 18:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17903081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarvelNerd/pseuds/MarvelNerd
Summary: Three main episodes; Murder at the "Orient Express", The Hidden Figure, and The Lost Waltz. Follow the last season of Sherlock as John and Sherlock not only deal with unexpected new villains, but parenthood on the side. Don't be fooled, its heavy angst with maybe a happy ending.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes paced around frantically in the living room of 221B, the carpet with worn marks from where he had been pacing all morning. His hair was disheveled in every direction, and his navy silk robe was flowing frantically around him as he paced.  
“You see, the woman couldn’t possibly have been murdered by her husband, the bruises on her neck were far too small of hands to be a grown man’s. Nobody else was in the house when she died, so therefore the murderer had another way of killing her, something to do with the bruising around her neck, probably strangled to death and yet! And yet there was no one to strangle her there except her own hands.”  
He stopped pacing quickly and looked over at John’s chair.  
“She was choking on a piece of food and choked herself to death with her own hands! Upon further looking I found a piece of apple exactly 45 degrees from where her mouth would have to spit it out. It really was quite obvious, wasn't it?”  
Rosie clapped her hands clumsily, looking at Sherlock with happy eyes. She sat askew in the corner of John’s chair.  
“You are a smart girl aren't you, Ms. Watson,” he glided over to her and picked her up in his arms, bouncing her around as he continued to ramble about past cases. “Quite above average for a Watson.” She laughed again.  
“Sherlock Holmes,” came a disgruntled voice from the stairwell. “It is four in the morning why on earth are you teaching my one-year-old daughter about deduction!” his hair was frazzled and staticy, jutting out in every which way. His backward shirt and mismatched socks added to the look of sleepy Watson that Sherlock had seen so many times.  
“It is never too early to learn the complicated art that is a deduction, John,” Rosie bobbed her head as if she agreed with him.  
“It’s bloody four in the morning!” John strutted over to Sherlock and took Rosie, who graciously accepted her father’s embrace. “Rosie is a growing child, Sherlock, you must know she needs to sleep.”  
Sherlock gave John a confused look, “I did not sleep as a child nearly as much as you claim is required.”  
John exhaled sharply and mumbled into Rosie’s hair “that explains a lot,” and clumsily climbed the stairs up to his and Rosie’s room.  
Sherlock snorted when he left, not bothering to explain that Rosie had been crying and was simply trying to help.  
“People,” he scoffed before restarting his experiment on the effects of microwaves on human thumbs.

INTRO PLAYS

“How have you been holding up, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asked politely as she set out the morning tea, shoving over his microscope and experiments to make room.  
“Mrs. Hudson I don’t need to ‘hold up’ anything.” he dramatically picked up his cup of tea and flopped lazily onto his chair.  
“Oh I don’t know about that, now that there is a baby in the house you're practically a father! Doesn’t leave much time for casework now does it dearly.” She walked over to John’s armchair, the usual occupant was still asleep.  
“John is Rosie’s father, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, exasperated.  
“Oh Sherlock, you never learn do you,” she tutted and added two sugars to his tea for him.  
Sherlock ignored her comment and went about shuffling through papers, absentmindedly avoiding the conversation.  
“You know Sherlock, it's been a while since…” she paused, “the incident with Mary.”  
He didn’t stop looking through the papers and tried to tune her out.  
“He’s going to start dating other women soon enough.”  
He kept his face as stoic as ever and lightly adjusted his suit lapels. “Why exactly would I care who John dated?” he asked with a bored expression.  
“How should I know, I am just your landlady,” she took a sip of her own tea.  
There was a silence for a few minutes, the only noise the rifle of papers and sips of tea.  
“Morning,” John’s voice came over the kitchen as he picked up his own tea, Rosie on one arm and the cup in the other. He was dressed for the day in his usual jeans and white jumper. Rosie had on a blue dress and her small hand clutched the wool.  
“Morning dear,” Mrs. Hudson said happily as she stood up and walked over to him. “He's getting quite antsy you know, needs a case or else he'll go mad!” she whispered in his ear.  
“Well that’s actually why I came down, Lestrade just sent me a text saying he has a murder.”  
“Oh, that’s wonderful dear!” Mrs. Hudson clapped. “Sherlock, did you hear what John said?”  
He looked up from his papers and turned around, “Oh hello John, didn’t hear you come in.”  
“I've been standing here a minute or so….” John trailed off, knowing this particular train of conversation was useless. “Could you watch Rosie for a few hours, Mrs. Hudson?”  
“Oh John, just this one time I'm not your babysitter!” she said with a fake serious tone, taking Rosie from his arms and walking down the stairs to her flat.  
“Come on Sherlock we have a case,” John called over before replying to Mrs. Hudson, “she has a playdate with Molly at noon!”  
“Not your babysitter!” her distant voice called.  
John had started putting on his coat before he saw Sherlock hadn’t. “Come on Sherlock, we both need a case. Lestrade is waiting.”  
Sherlock looked a little dazed, but he blinked away the confusion and uneasiness and replied: “right, a case, very good.” He placed the remaining papers on the desk and snatched his wool coat from its hook.

____________________________________________________________________________  
“Well, it looks as though he choked to death,” Lestrade said, leading them into the Chinese restaurant.  
Sherlock circled the body of an Asian man who was sitting at a booth, head face down in a plate of noodles. “John, how did he die?” Sherlock looked up.  
John looked closely at the body before noticing the bruising on his neck. “Looks as though he was choked to death really.”  
“Yes, John, I agree,” he looked at each of the man’s fingers and then his shirt and shoes. He looked up suddenly. “Was there anyone else in the restaurant on the night of his murder?”  
“Everyone in the area says he was alone, Terry Wong is his name, we have statements from multiple people,” Lestrade said.  
“Was there any motive behind the killer?” John asked.  
“No, not that we know of, everyone spoke of him fondly and said how sad it was he died.” Sherlock looked up from the corpse at this, eyes flashing with recognition.  
“Do you have security camera footage?” John asked.  
“We have footage from an hour before the murder, say he was killed around midnight.”  
“I need to speak to the witnesses, how many are there?” Sherlock demanded more than asked.  
“Nine customers, two waiters, and two kitchen staff.” Lestrade flipped through his notebook.  
“Send them all to the flat Lestrade, now come, John, I am sure your daughter misses you.” Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and started to walk out. Lestrade gave him an odd look and John just shrugged.  
____________________________________________________________________________  
“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock called as soon as they got into the flat.  
“How was the case Sherlock, enough to keep you busy for a few days?” She carried Rosie into the hallway, who reached for John as soon as she saw him, even though he was just taking off his jacket.  
“It will do,” Sherlock said grumpily, trudging up the stairs so everyone could hear.  
“My, what has gotten into him?” Mrs. Hudson passed Rosie to John, who kissed her head and took her.  
“He seemed fine at the restaurant,” John pinched his nose, “but he is Sherlock Holmes, something probably set him off, seemed pretty grumpy this morning after you spoke with him.”  
Mrs. Hudson’s eyes twinkled sadly as she nodded, “yes I suppose he was.”  
At this, John traveled up the stairs to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, client seat set up in the middle ready to go.  
“The first witness arrives in ten minutes, John,” Sherlock said, legs crossed.  
“Right, I’ll put Rosie in her room then,” he turned to do so but was stopped by a “wait, she can stay.” John looked at Sherlock confused.  
“Children do seem to bring out the honesty in people,” He raised an eyebrow. John rolled his eyes, putting Rosie on the floor. She crawled over to Sherlock immediately and pawed at his boot.  
“Shwoc,” she blubbered, reaching up at him. Sherlock looked taken aback, but picked her up gently and placed her on his lap, followed by her snuggling up to his chest.  
John’s heart warmed as he smiled at Sherlock’s dumbfounded expression, but he raised his hand and placed it awkwardly on Rosie’s back.  
“I think she’s warming up to you,” John chuckled and walked over to him, crouching down and smiling at his daughter who turned to face him.  
“Oh.. I’m sorry,” a voice came from the open doorway, “am I interrupting?”  
John shot up and nervously ran a hand through his hair, “No, no, we’re not-”  
“Sit,” Sherlock gestured at the chair. She eased into it and looked around, at John, then Sherlock, then the baby curled in his lap.  
“A nice family you have here, Mr. Holmes,” she fidgeted with the rings on her hands.  
He didn’t respond but stared at her, hands folded under his chin.  
“What do you know about Terry Wong?” He asked.  
She played with the ripples in her dress, “he was a nice old man, used to work for him a while back.”  
“Well, why did you stop?” Sherlock sat forward more, still a mask of indifference on his face.  
“Well-- he fired me,” she paused, “but I don't have any hard feelings, Mr. Holmes, I swear.”  
“And where were you the night Mr. Wong was murdered?” Rosie was sitting upright in his lap now, staring at the woman with innocent eyes.  
“I had dinner there with a friend of mine before we left around 11,” she looked at Rosie.  
“And you didn’t see anyone suspicious?” It was John who asked this time.  
“No, not that I know of,”  
The room was silent for a moment before Sherlock stood up suddenly, Rosie on his hip. “You can leave now.” He gestured to the door.  
She sat for a moment and looked at John. “I said leave, there are more people coming in you're taking up time.”  
She nodded to him and scuffed out the door. “That really was quite rude, Sherlock.” John scolded. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow.  
____________________________________________________________________________  
The rest of the suspects came in, all with similar stories. They all seemed to love Mr. Wong, maybe a little too much.  
Rosie had been put down for a nap and John and Sherlock now sat in their respective chairs sipping tea.  
“We should take Rosie and go to Angelo's for dinner tonight,” John said, flipping through the paper.  
Sherlock didn't look up from his laptop, “why would we do that?”  
“We haven’t been since--” John’s voice faltered, “I think it would be a good thing for us to do.”  
Sherlock seemed to contemplate this for a moment, “fine.” John hid a smile.  
“How do you say he was asphyxiated, Sherlock,” John asked a few minutes later.  
“From the bruises on his face and neck, I would say he was choked to death.”  
“But with what? There was no rope found.”  
Sherlock stood and started to pace, “Obviously the killer took it with him, or he just did it with his hands,” he hesitated, “We should go to the morgue and check again, John.." He looked up, eyes focused the way they always did when he focused on a case.  
“Sherlock,” John hesitated, “Molly works at the morgue.”  
“What your point?” He looked confused.  
“Sherlock-,” he sighed and put away the paper. “You know.” There was a beat of silence.  
“Is this because I told her I loved her?” He sounded annoyed.  
“Yes, it is.”  
“Why does that matter? You take Rosie to see her frequently.”  
John stood up, “Why does it matter?” John put his hands on his hips, “you love her Sherlock, you said so yourself!”  
Sherlock spun quickly, “I absolutely do not, her life was in danger. I had no choice.”  
John’s face softened briefly, “Sherlock, you need to tell her the truth about what happened.”  
Sherlock sighed loudly, walking to the door and grabbing his coat. “I will deal with the issue,” he said sarcastically. John followed him down the stairs, yelling to Mrs. Hudson telling her they were going out for a while and to watch Rosie.  
The walk through the hallway to the morgue was silent and awkward, Sherlock’s head clouded with the case and John’s about Molly. He didn’t have much time to worry though, as Sherlock simply burst through the door.  
“I need to see the body of Terry Wong,” He said, not even looking at her.  
She stood there for a moment, frozen. “That’s all your going to say?” she put down the metal bowl in her hand. “That’s all you have to say, after everything that happened. You calling me, telling me-- that, and then hanging up!”  
“Molly, I don’t love you, I said it to save your life.”  
The room was silent, “Sherlock,” John muttered silently, rubbing a hand over his face.  
“Save my life huh? Do you have any idea what you have done to me? To Tom?” Her voice was breaking and tears slipped from her face.  
“My psychopath sister was going to bomb your apartment if you didn’t say it. I had to get you to say I love you.” He didn’t move from his spot near the doorway.  
“You're all psychopaths,” she wiped her eyes and stormed into the back room.  
“We still need to see the body!” Sherlock fruitlessly called after her.  
“Sherlock that was terrible, you did terribly.” John groaned.  
“I told her the truth, that’s what you wanted isn’t it?” Sherlock turned around and left the morgue.  
“That wasn’t very gentle,” he sped up to walk next to Sherlock.  
“If she can’t handle the truth what am I supposed to do about it.”  
____________________________________________________________________________  
Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk, signing pieces of paper to do with the government when Lady Smallwood walked into his room.  
“What is it you need,” he said coldly.  
“Mycroft Holmes, always so welcoming.” Mycroft gave her a look.  
“Anthea is waiting outside, someone wishes to meet with you.”  
“And who would that be?” He didn’t stand.  
“We are not sure,” She said, almost ashamed.  
“You don’t know?” He stood now, “We know everything, how could we not know?”  
“they have done an impeccable job at hiding their identity.”  
“That is quite impossible, Ms. Smallwood.” He scoffed, “There is only one person who has ever been able to conceal their identity from me, and they are dead.”  
“Let’s find out then.”

 

The car stopped in front of an old warehouse, not unlike the one Mycroft first met John. He walked in alone, tentatively looking around each corner for the mysterious figure. He stood at the top of some stairs, breathing in the musty smell of the cement walls.  
“You Holmes’ are all the same you know,” She stepped out from behind the shadows, “you think you're so smart but you didn’t know after all these years.” She came closer and ran a finger along his jaw, “That I was still alive.”  
Mycroft smiled at her and nodded, “Ms. Adler, how good to see you.”  
“Mycroft Holmes,” she ran a hand up his arm, “it has been a while, hasn’t it?”  
“Yes, I suppose it has.” She leaned in even closer, breathing down his neck, “it certainly has.”  
He took a step back, “I am afraid your seduction won’t work on me, unlike my brother.” He eyed her carefully.  
She sighed heavily, dropping the facade. “It didn’t work on him Mycroft Holmes, it never did.”  
There was a beat of silence.  
“And why would you say that?” He tilted his head.  
“Because we are far too similar to each other.” She bit her lip, “his heart was elsewhere.”  
“Many people would disagree with you,”  
“And why is that?”  
“They say he doesn’t have one.” He folded his hands behind his back and stood up straighter.  
“And we both know they are woefully mistaken.”  
“Yes, my little brother cares more than he wishes he did.”  
There was a calm silence.  
“He saved you, didn't he?”  
She looked at him carefully, “and if he did, what would that mean?”  
“My brother is not keen on failures, they don’t sit with him well.”  
“He saved me so he could--,” She straightened, “move on.”  
“You are The Woman, after all.” He nodded in respect, “you have managed to avoid my knowledge for a long time, why come back now?”  
“Do you know who I used to work for, Mr. Holmes?”  
“How could I not,” he growled internally, but kept a straight face, “Jim Moriarty.”  
“Yes,” she ran a hand along the rusted stair banister. “He was my protection and my threat.”  
“Sound like a fair deal,” he said sarcastically, only for her to ignore it.  
“I know things that are going to happen, and it will not end well for him.”  
Mycroft hid his worried expression with a laugh, “why should I trust you?”  
“Because why would I lie? Come back here out of seclusion and relative safety only to be thrown to the dogs once again.”  
He didn’t respond.  
“I knew about her, you know,” she smirked, “Eurus.”  
Mycroft felt the sweat trickle down his neck, “and how would you know that?”  
“Jim told me loads of secrets,” she shrugged slowly, “some you don’t even know.”  
“I highly doubt you know anything I don’t,” he chuckled.  
“You didn’t know I was here did you?” silence.  
“I will see you soon, Mycroft Holmes,” she kissed his cheek and winked before strutting out of the warehouse.  
____________________________________________________________________________  
“ Are you sure this is a good idea, John?” Sherlock was dressed in his usual suit, hair freshly was done up with gel.  
“It’s good to take Rosie out once and a while instead of being locked up in that bloody apartment.” He carried her on his arm as Sherlock hailed a cab.  
“There is no reason she cannot come on cases with us, John.” He succeeded in getting the cab and they sat down, shutting the doors with a thunk and telling the cabbie to take them to Angelo’s.  
“Daddy,” Rosie pulled at John’s white jumper.  
“What is it, Rosie?”  
“Hungry,” Sherlock smirked. “She is a lot like you,” He joked.  
John ignored him, “we’ll be there soon ok?”  
They rode in silence until they arrived, walking into Angelo’s bracing themselves for his onslaught of praise.  
“My god, it’s Sherlock and John!” he beamed, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. It was then he realized the baby on John’s hip. “And who is this?”  
John slid her up a little, “This is Rosamund, my daughter.”  
“Hi,” she waved.  
“Well isn't that something, you two finally came around then?” He started walking them to their usual table.  
John looked at Sherlock, but he said nothing in response. “We’re not a couple.”  
Angelo barely let a frown pass his face, “Alright then, boys, you know the usual. Anything on the house for you, and for your daughter.” he pinched her cheek and she giggled.  
They sat uncomfortably for a moment, John’s eyes locked on the menu even though he had memorized it long ago. He cleared his throat to break the tension.  
“Why don’t you ever say anything?” John asked frustrated.  
“To what?” Sherlock adjusted the napkin on Rosie’s shirt as she clawed at a bread roll.  
“When people say-” he gestured back and forth between them, “things.”  
Sherlock didn’t look up, “John, I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re complaining about.”  
“Bloody hell Sherlock, yes you do,” he mumbled into his wine.  
“No, I don’t,” he sighed tiredly.  
Their argument was interrupted by a bubbling Angelo, “what will we be having, boys?”  
Sherlock rested his chin on his hand, “pasta with butter for Ms. Watson, I’ll just have a salad, you John?”  
A still fuming John was able to say, “lasagna,” and made sure Angelo was out of earshot before starting up again. “You love correcting people, it is your favorite thing to do.”  
Sherlock swayed his head, “lots of people need correcting, most everyone is wrong.” he rolled his eyes.  
“So why do you never correct people,” he swallowed thickly, “when they say we’re together.”  
Sherlock’s head spiked up and something passed over his eyes before he looked back down, almost embarrassed. “I can always count on you to do that, John.”  
John didn’t know what to say to that.  
They sat quietly until their dinner arrived. “Here you are, made it myself.” Angelo smiled, utterly oblivious to the tension at the table. Rosie blubbered happily and picked at the noodles with her fingers. Sherlock ate his salad in small bites, both he and John knowing he wasn’t going to finish it anyway. John stared at his meal for a long time, silently asking himself why he ordered it.  
“Is something wrong with the lasagna, John?” Sherlock asked, setting his own fork aside.  
He cleared his throat for the second time that night, “no, no it’s just fine.” he forced himself to take a bite, but it flooded his mind with memories. He took a big gulp of water and forced it down, ignoring the way it sat like a brick in his stomach.  
“John, if this is about earlier-” Sherlock actually looked concerned, only to be interrupted by broken words.  
“This is all I ate,” he said, “when I thought you had died.” Sherlock took to wipe the butter off Rosie’s face.  
“People tend to bring lasagna when someone dies.” The deafening quiet rained over them again.  
“And now Mary too,” he ran a hand over his face. Sherlock helplessly watched from the other side of the table, flinching his hand slightly before letting it drop.  
“Maybe we should go,” he finally said a few minutes later, and so they did. Sherlock carried Rosie, who was smiling as she slept in his arms, unaware of the tension between the two.  
Baker Street was silent that night, except for the soft tunes of a long forgotten violin melody. Rosie tucked in bed with John.  
Sherlock played this song when they both slept, the song he had written, but for all the wrong reasons. He had danced to it, practiced alone when the sky was too dark to cast shadows through the curtains, one hand low and one up high twirling through 221B. Mrs. Hudson walked in once, seen him dancing alone to the song she knew so well and gave him a sad smile. He had poured his heart into it. The melody flowed through his blood now, but instead of warming his heart like it used to, it cast a sheet of ice in his veins when he heard it.  
He played it anyway.  
____________________________________________________________________________

“Sherlock!” John knocked on his friend’s door, “Sherlock your brother wishes to speak to you.”  
“What could my brother possibly want from me?” Sherlock didn’t open the door, venom in his voice still bitter about his sister.  
“It is somewhat important, brother mine,” Mycroft called from the living room.  
Sherlock rubbed his eyes, wrapping himself in his sheet and trying to make himself look like he didn’t have such a terrible night. He looked in the mirror and saw a sad and broken man.  
“What is it Mycroft, off making candy apples with the prince of Siberia?” He dragged his sheet into his chair, which he sank into.  
“No, brother mine, a certain woman has come to speak with me,” Sherlock’s expression didn’t change.  
“Mm, what did she have to say to you?” He asked, sipping tea that had somehow ended up next to his chair.  
“Wait, wait, hold on,” John interrupted. “A woman, as in the woman, Irene Adler?” He looked nervous for the answer.  
“Yes, of course, it’s the woman, John, when have I ever taken time to think of another one?”  
John looked taken aback, “I knew she was alive, but you sent her the text and she didn’t reply…”  
“I sent the text because you told me to, John.” Sherlock looked up again. John shut up.  
“Anyway, she told me you were in danger,” Mycroft said suddenly.  
“Danger, danger from what?” John stepped closer to Sherlock.  
“I’m not sure, she hasn’t told me.” He shifted uncomfortably.  
“So she came over, told you I was in,” he did air quotes, “danger, and then she doesn’t tell you how. Well, that’s very helpful.”  
Mycroft gave an irritated grunt, “Sherlock, I don’t think you understand the gravity of this situation.”  
“Gravity of the situation, did he just say gravity of the situation?” Sherlock flung his legs over the armchair and reached for his violin. He began to play a very off-key “London bridges falling down”.  
“Sherlock, maybe we should listen to him-”  
“Boring!” Sherlock let his head fall backward on the other armrest, sheet still spilling over the chair like a bucket with too much water.  
“I am going to establish extra security around 221B and inform your landlady of the situation, goodbye John.” And he left without even a nod to his younger brother.  
“Sherlock!” John shouted, his hands on his hips.  
“What is it John,” he plucked at some strings.  
“We-- I have a daughter to worry about the safety of! If Irene Adler thinks there is the danger you can bet there is, and I will not risk the safety of my daughter.” He huffed like an angry dog and stormed up the stairs.  
Sherlock stewed in his chair for a minute before standing to dress. Halfway through, he heard heavy footsteps down the top floor and he tugged on his suit jacket as he left his bedroom. John was carrying Rosie with two big duffel bags, looking to be in a hurry.  
“John,” Sherlock sighed, “You’re being ridiculous.”  
“Am I really Sherlock? Am I so crazy to want to protect my daughter?” He barely stopped in the hallway.  
“John, this isn’t like you. You don’t leave like this, you live for the danger, the thrill of the chase! We’re on a case, remember? Terry Wong? I think I almost have the solution--” he turned quickly and went to prove it to John.  
“Sherlock, I don’t care about the case! I can’t go chasing you around London looking for killers anymore! I have a daughter!” Rosie began to cry at his yelling and Sherlock’s pulse started to quicken. John barely seemed to notice.  
“Can you protect her? From whatever it is Irene is afraid of?” Rosie cried harder.  
Sherlock tried to stand steady, tried to grip onto the wall but when he tried to think, the wail of Rosie’s cry roared in his mind palace.  
“Well, can you?” John wasn’t going to wait much longer.  
Sherlock spun in a circle, “Shut up! Shut up!” He held his head in his hands.  
“I have my answer then,” John started to leave.  
“John!” Sherlock called once more, “John please,”  
He stopped in the doorway.  
“Don’t leave,” Sherlock wasn’t a beggar, so he ignored the pounding in his head and the sobs that raked the girl in John’s arms. “Whatever it is, you'll be safe here with me, Mycroft setup guards god knows where.” He dared to take a step closer, “You will be safe here. I already failed my vow to protect Mary, but I will not fail you, John.” His voice was firm and steady, but his hand shook slightly as he reached out to comfort Rosie, who reached for him instantly.  
John stood still for a moment, watching Sherlock take his daughter from his arms. He patted her head and shushed her calmly. “You’re ok, Ms. Watson,” he said quietly into her ear.  
John melted a little, allowing a trusting smile to cross his face, “Alright, I already trust you with my life,” he pried one of Rosie’s hands from Sherlock’s shirt and held it gently. “I trust you with hers too.” Sherlock concealed his smile in her hair.  
____________________________________________________________________________  
“John, how could all these witnesses be connected?” He crossed his legs at the computer.  
“I’m not sure, how could they all have a motive?”  
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Sherlock folded his hands under his chin. “None of the witnesses had a motive.”  
John furrowed his eyebrows. “This has been established?”  
Sherlock dramatically rolled his eyes, “Really, John, use your head.”  
“Just tell me would you?” John pretended to sound annoyed.  
“If it wasn't one of them, then it was all of them.” He said it like common sense.  
“How can you prove that?” John stood from his chair to walk over to the computer.  
“They started a group over social media, talked about how much they hated him,” Sherlock smirked and scrolled through the facebook group for John. “They were all lying.”  
“But that’s not enough proof for arrest,” John added.  
“No,” Sherlock stood and straightened his suit.  
“So what are we going to do?”  
“Nothing,” he didn’t seem to care, “We know they did it, they did not beat me.” he shrugged. “Why does it matter if they get arrested, there is simply nothing we can do about it.”  
John seemed baffled, “Well we can’t just let them all roam the streets!”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes once again, “there's nothing we can do, John, but balance has been restored to London.” John still looked confused. “Tea?” Sherlock said happily, heading towards the kitchen. John nodded just as the phone rang.  
“John Watson,” he said.  
“John,” Mycroft said over the line.  
“Over the phone, wow Mycroft, losing your touch?”  
“There has been no word from Irene Adler,” he said, ignoring the comment.  
John shifted nervously, leaning against the wall. “Thanks for the update I suppose,” he said.  
The phone call ended. “That was rather abrupt,” John blinked.  
“My brother is not the best at social skills,” Sherlock poured their teas into mugs.  
John chuckled when he took it, “And you are?”  
“I have managed to find myself someone who can tolerate me,” Sherlock sat in his chair, “all the people that are ever near Mycroft are paid to be.”  
John looked sadly at his tea, “Sherlock I don’t just tolerate you.” He shook his head slightly, “You’re my best friend.”  
There was silence for a moment and Sherlock reached for his violin, standing in his normal corner in the window he played a casual melody that bounced off the walls. John smiled into his tea and tried to read his book, the fire warmly burning next to him.  
For a while, along with the pop of the fireplace and occasional turn of John’s book page, the echoes of Sherlock’s violin were the only sounds in 221B.  
“Here you go John,” Mrs. Hudson said quietly from the doorway, a sleepy Rosie in her arm.  
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” John said when he came to get Rosie and kissed her cheek. “Goodnight boys,” she headed back down the stairs, her footsteps heard from the creaks in the wood. Sherlock’s violin didn’t cease, for on calm nights like this Sherlock would play John and Mary’s wedding song to help her sleep.  
It was her favorite song.  
When John had settled into his armchair again, a half-asleep Rosie in his lap, Sherlock began the song. His fingers had memorized the melody long ago, but John never tired of hearing it for his eyes had stopped watering when he heard it a while ago.  
When the fire died down and the waltz was over, Rosie groggily mumbled a word in her sleep.  
“Dada,” she said.  
“I'm right here, Rose,” John smiled a little, standing carefully to take her to bed.  
“No,” she said again, “Dada.”  
Sherlock put down his violin and looked at her, “doesn’t she know you're her father?” his tone was curious.  
“I'm right here, sweetheart,” John said again, but she opened her eyes a little more and smiled a dopey grin, reaching for Sherlock she said it again, “Dada.”  
Everyone froze at once. Sherlock’s eyes went wide along with John’s.  
“Did she just--” Sherlock swallowed.  
“Yes, I think she did.” John smiled at him and walked over. Sherlock backed up and held out his hands defensively.  
“John I have no idea where she got that from, I certainly wasn’t teaching her--”  
“Sherlock, It’s ok,” he chuckled a little, warmth spreading over his heart. Sherlock still looked hesitant. “Really, it’s ok.” He nodded his head encouragingly, handing over Rosie to Sherlock. He held her as if she would break when he touched her.  
His voice was breathy and quiet when he spoke, “I’m sure this is just a one-time thing, John.” He said nervously.  
“Maybe it is,” John smiled, “maybe it isn’t.”  
Sherlock stayed frozen.  
“We’re raising her together Sherlock, that’s what we agreed to when I moved back into the flat,” He made a move to step forward, but chose not to, “It was bound to happen eventually.”  
“Time for bed, Ms. Watson,” Sherlock whispered, but she was already asleep in his arms.


	2. The Hidden Figure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a suicide, but this time it's someone they know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so here is part two. This one is a lot more case-centric, so I hope you guys like that. I apologize for a few spelling mistakes, as I wanted to get this out there as soon as possible :)

 

**The Hidden Figure**

  
  
  
  
  


3 YEARS PRIOR:

“Is that what you want me to do?” a woman’s voice echoed through the hall, her figure cast in shadows.

“That is what you have to do! If you don’t,” He took a big smack of his gum, “I'll just have to make you into a nice rug, hm?” Moriarty’s voice replied.

The woman swallowed, “What did I ever do to deserve this?” her voice was small and weak.

“Nah,” he gestured at himself happily, “it is privileged to work for me!” a bubble of his gum snapped.

“Look, I dislike him just as much as you do but isn’t this a wee bit extreme?”

Moriarty looked at her like she had ten heads, “Extreme is my MO, surely you know that by now,” he walked toward her slowly, “we have known each other for quite a long time after all.”

“That wasn’t particularly by choice now was it?” She laughed.

“No I suppose not, regardless we have been brought together to finish the job, in case my suicide plan doesn’t work.” He smacked his lips.

“I’m sure  _ she  _ can help provide information,” the woman raised her eyebrows.

“I have already spoken with her,” he paused and lifted his head dramatically, “alone.”

“Well how did ya manage that?” the woman was shocked.

“She wanted to,” his eyes twinkled.

“Anything useful?”

“Loads,” he smirked.

“Than what on earth do ya need me fer?”

“We need more information on the dear doctor before we can execute the plan.”

“What else is there to know? We know where they live, what they do,” she shook her head, “what are you getting at?”

“It's not what he has now,” Moriarty cackled, “it’s what he’s going to have.”

“Jim, why do always have to be so bloody cryptic?”

“Cryptic is sexy,” he ran a hand through his hair, “don’t you think?”

“You really are disgusting ya know.” 

“Oh I know,” he spits out his gum in the corner, “that’s my appeal.”

“So if you die in this whole plan we have, who am I supposed to get my orders from?”

“Oh don’t you know,” he smiled once again, “the sister will tell you everything.”

A silence fell over the hallway.

“Yer kidding, right? How am I supposed to get into  _ that place _ on my own?” She put her hands on her hips.

“My god you were always thick,” Moriarty broke into hysterical laughter, “you don’t have to go to her! You underestimate her capabilities.”

He turned around to leave, mumbling a song as he did so.

 

“I that am lost, oh who will find me?

Deep down below the old beech tree.”

 

The woman called after him, “When am I supposed to start this plan of yers?”

He stopped singing and grinned at her, “oh you'll know.” 

“Don't forget darling,” he called one last time, “I’ll turn you into a rug.”

She was left alone in the hallway as his footsteps echoed loudly.

 

“Help succor me now the east winds blow

Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go!”

 

INTRO PLAYS

 

“Sherlock!” John slammed the fridge shut and it bounced before settling, “We are out of milk again!”

Sherlock plucked a string on his violin, feet kicked up on the side table, “When have I ever gotten milk before John?” he plucked again.

John huffed and trudged over to the door, slinging on his coat he pointed Sherlock an accusatory finger, “watch Rosie, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Sherlock didn’t bother looking up and plucked a few more strings again, allowing himself to smile when Rosie reached up for him from the floor. He quickly stood and picked her up in a swoop, the swing he made as they walked to the window making her giggle uncontrollably. 

“Bye Daddy,” her small hand waved at the window.

They stood there together for a moment, watching the rain peacefully trickle onto the houses in the evening light.

“Story,” Rosie requested, fisting a wad of his suit jacket in her hand.

“Stories are for children,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Please?” she wobbled her lip.

“No,” he put her back down on the floor and resumed his plucking.

She sat there frowning for a moment, “please?”

Sherlock sighed dramatically but reached for her to come to him. She climbed onto his lap clumsily and he positioned the violin in her lap.

“Try it,” he said, raising her hand to the strings. She looked up at him with one toothed grin and plucked it carefully. It made a poignant twang and she giggled.

He directed her through a few strings, telling her to pluck this one then that one so she played Mary had a little lamb. 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

John walked through the rain with his coat pulled up over his head to the store. 

“Why does he never get the bloody milk,” he grumbled, blinking stray raindrops from his eyes.

It wasn’t a large grocery store, but it made do for what they needed. Before Rosie, they simply ordered takeaway for dinner every night, getting the sugar for Sherlock’s tea from Mrs. Hudson.

He was so lost in thought that he bumped into someone in the hallway, knocking the bag of sugar and biscuits out of her arms.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” he scrambled to pick them up for her.

“Oh no, it’s quite alright,” she chuckled and took them from his hands.

They looked at each other for a moment. She had short, brown hair and piercing blue eyes.

“What are you getting?” She asked him.

“What-- oh me? I'm here for uh-- uh-- milk,” he smiled.

She laughed, “I guess we’re going separate ways then?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” he started to walk away.

“Hey,” she called after him, “would you like to have dinner tomorrow--”

“John,” he nodded, “sure I would like that.”

“See you tomorrow then, John,” she smiled and put her name in his phone. Juliet.

John bought the milk with a dopey grin and walked home in the pouring rain without his jacket pulled up.

“She will do,” he said confidently as he stared at the door for 221B. He walked up the stairs with the groceries in his hands.

“Sher--” he called when he got upstairs, but stopped. Sherlock was asleep in his chair, Rosie tucked under his chin with a fistful of his jacket. 

John smiled and walked over, “Hello, love,” he said and kissed Rosie’s head.

“Oh John, your back,” Sherlock opened his eyes lazily, “you get the milk?”

“Yes,” he gently took Rosie from Sherlock’s arms, “everything go ok here?”

Sherlock stood and straightened his jacket, “she kept asking for a story.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John said, carrying Rosie up to bed.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________

 

“Boys!” Mrs. Hudson called, letting Lestrade into the flat, “the detective inspector is here!” She patted his arm and offered him tea, only for him to decline.

Sherlock stumbled out of his room, ruffling his hair in his blue bathrobe. “You know Gavin when I do choose to sleep I don’t enjoy being woken up so early.”

“Well I’m sorry but there's been a suicide.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, “usually your judgments about suicides are incorrect”

“What-- who--?” John rubbed his forehead, still in his pajamas.

“Do you remember the man from John’s wedding, the one Janine danced with in the end?”

“The sci-fi geek, yes how could I forget,” Sherlock said.

“He’s dead, carbon monoxide poisoning. Names Travis Newsome.” Lestrade scratched his head.

“How soon can we leave?” Sherlock yelled, already halfway back to his bedroom.

John gave a deflated sigh and made the long journey back up the stairs. He had really wanted a calm morning for once.

They were both out within minutes, Sherlock dressed without a crease in his suit and John barely dressed at all.

“The game is on!” Sherlock jumped with joy as the followed Lestrade down the stairs.

“Mrs. Hudson!” John called when they passed the door.

“Oh, don’t worry John, I'll watch her,” she said before he even asked.

Sherlock opened the taxi door and they both crawled in, squished as ever.

“You don’t think it’s a suicide do you?” John said after a minute.

“I am not convinced. I would have known if he was suicidal at the wedding.”

“Then why was he found in his car, with the windows up, turned on in his garage like a traditional suicide would be.”

“We will know when we get there won’t we?” Sherlock checked his watch

“You know, freak, not everything is murder. Some people really do kill themselves,” Donovan said as soon as Sherlock and John arrived at the scene.

“Always a pleasure, Sally,” John said, nodding at her and sharing a smile with Sherlock

 

The scene was a classic suicide. The convertible Fiat 500 was parked in the garage with all the windows and top rolled up. They were informed the car had been on and the doors were locked from the inside. They circled the car with intent eyes, searching for any sign that this was something more to the story. All they could find were some miscellaneous items on his workbench; nails, wrench, a shoelace.

John didn’t quite see anything suspicious, and with further examination of the body, he determined that he did, in fact, die of carbon monoxide poisoning.

“Another thing, Sherlock, he seemed to be a big fan of yours, had a printed copy of The Blind Baker from John’s blog on his desk.” Lestrade handed Sherlock a bound copy of their case with the drug cartel in China. Sherlock flipped through some of the pages before tucking it into his coat.

“You can’t keep--” Lestrade started to say, but knew it was fruitless and gave up.

“Sherlock, I think this one is cut and dry mate,” John scratched his head.

Sherlock gave him a glare, “Did he show any previous signs of depression?” Sherlock asked Lestrade.

“Well I dunno, the last person he spoke with supposedly was his mum.”  
“And?” Sherlock said, exasperated.

“She has been in hysterics, hasn’t really given a full statement.”  
“People are so weak,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, well, I bet you wouldn’t even bat an eye if something happened to your child,” Lestrade said without thinking and looked up immediately from his notebook. “I’m sorry, I’m not saying you wouldn’t care if Rosie--”

Sherlock kept his mask of indifference on and nodded, “you are correct, I am a sociopath,” and he left the scene without another word, followed by a concerned John who growled at a guilty Lestrade.

“Sherlock he didn’t mean it,” John tried to catch up.

“Yes he did, and he was correct, I am a sociopath I do not care for others only myself.” He quickly got into the cab and slammed the door in John’s face.

John sighed, and when Lestrade came over to apologize again, he put up a hand “You’ve really done it this time Greg,” and hailed a cab for himself.

John creeped into 221B as quietly as possible, trying not to disturb Mrs. Hudson and a probably napping Rosie when he saw her door ajar. He walked in carefully and threaded over to where Rosie slept, only to see Sherlock standing over her and playing with a loose curl on her forehead. John smiled and turned around to head upstairs.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

 

“What about Janine?” John asked from over the reams of textbooks they were pouring over in order to try and find out what drove Travis Newsome to kill himself.

“Hmm, what about her,” Sherlock didn’t look up.

“Well, she was dancing with him at the wedding, maybe they got together afterward for a while. She might know something we don’t.”

Sherlock looked up instantly, “that was not a completely idiotic suggestion, John,” his eyes twinkled.

“Well I thought so,” he laughed.

“We can ask her over now and ask her some questions,” Sherlock suggested. He whipped out his phone and sent a quick text before folding his hands under his chin in the position John knew as ready to go to his mind palace. He figured it wouldn’t take long and he wouldn’t be late for his date if he timed it right.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________

 

Irene Adler walked along a dark alleyway, her black coat pulled above her ears and a deep red shade of lipstick a shadow on her chin. She approached her destination in a few moments, double checking each pass as she went.

“You’re sure this is what you want to do?” She asked the figure she knew would be in the dark corner.

“It is what must be done,” the voice replied.

“Is it really something you should want to go through with?”

“We have no choice,” the conversation was feeling rather repetitive.

“And why do you need me?” Irene asked, flicking dust off her glove.

“Because you are closest to Sherlock Holmes,” The voice said.

“Am I really? Or am I just easily manipulated?”

“Both.” There was silence.

“He saved my life, why should I help you ruin his?”

“Must I repeat I have no choice?” The voice got angrier, “I know his pressure points, I know how to break him.”

“Ah, yes, Charles Magnussen,” Irene tutted, “You really had him under your finger, could have used him for much more useful things than ruining the life of one consulting detective.” 

The voice stuck out a piece of paper from the shadows.

“Making me sign a contract are we?” Irene placed the pen in between her teeth and flipped to the back. “Alright,” she started to write her name in big loopy letters, “I will do as you ask of me, Moriarty.”

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Rosie was running a slight fever when John went to check on her. He patted her back and dabbed the cool cloth on her forehead, but she was starting to fall asleep in his arms so he put her to bed with a kiss on the forehead. Just then there was a knock on the door.

Sherlock opened the door to see Janine, a bright smile plastered on her face.

“Miss me?” She asked with a lopsided grin. “Sherlock Holmes,” she shook her head, “never thought I’d see you again.”

“Well it is for the purpose of a case, not a romantic pursuit.” he leads her to the client chair and gestured for her to sit.

“John!” She said happily when he came down from the stairs. 

“Hello, Janine.” 

“So sorry about Mary,” she frowned.

John smiled sadly, “Yes, well we are getting on fine her with Rosie and all.”

“Yer daughter?” Janine smiled widely, “May I see her?”

“Ah, well I just put her down for a nap and she’s not feeling well so--”

“Oh no, it's quite alright,” she seemed annoyed.

Sherlock wasted no more time, “What happened between you and Travis?”

She blew a breath out of her nose, “well, we hooked up a few times after the wedding, seemed like a decent guy. We didn’t get along though, he always had itchy ankles.”

John raised an eyebrow.

“He had a stash of temporary tattoos, it drove me insane really, he stuck one on every day in a different spot,” she shook her head, “weird bloke he was, big fan of yours too, Sherlock.”

“He’s dead,” Sherlock said matter of factly.

“What?” She seemed taken aback, “How did he die?”

“Suicide.”

“That’s awful.” she frowned.

“Yes, it is,” John added, “found dead in his car from carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“When is Rosie’s birthday?” Janine said a moment later.

“January 1st,” John said proudly, but Sherlock looked skeptical.

“What a birthday!” She chuckled.

“Yes, well it is quite special.” 

“So you don’t know anything about Travis’s suicide?” Sherlock interrupted their train of thought.

“I haven't the slightest idea, I really am sorry Sherlock,” she shrugged.

He hummed barely in acknowledgment and slapped his knees. “Well Janine, I think that’s enough from you. John and I have some work to do.” Sherlock stood and started to usher her out of the flat.

“I sure hope you find out who did it,” Janine said as she took one last lap around the flat, looking around at all the walls and windows as if she was remembering the good old days.

“See you around, Sherlock,” she winked at him before closing the door behind her with a clunk.

“Well that wasn’t very helpful,” John said when she left.

“We should go see the crime scene again,” Sherlock was already pulling on his coat.

“Actually Sherlock,” John interrupted  awkwardly, “I have a date tonight.”

If anyone else had been looking, they would not have seen a change in Sherlock’s expression. But John knew Sherlock too well, and briefly caught a glimpse of his face falling in utter disappointment.

“Alright then,” he still pulled on his coat ready to leave.

“Sherlock--” John shifted, choking down the regret of agreeing to this date, “Can you maybe, watch Rosie. Mrs. Hudson has had her all day and--”

Sherlock stood still in the doorway but removed his coat, “Alright then John, send my love to your date.” 

John flinched at the familiar line, “thank you,” he said and went to get dressed without looking back.

When John had finished changing and gelled up his hair, he went down the stairs in the living room to see Sherlock flipping through the case with Rosie, who had just woken from her nap, stuck on his side.

“I’ll be back around eleven, alright?” He went over and kissed Rosie’s cheek.

“Yes, sure,” Sherlock didn’t look up.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________

 

John had done everything he was supposed to. He held the door open for her, pulled out her chair, and was an all-around perfect gentleman for the beginning of the evening. 

“What kind of wine are you thinking, John?” Juliet asked him from across the white table cloth.

“I don’t know, not really my area.” He chuckled at the familiar phrasing.

“White or red?” 

“Either work,” he smiled and placed down his menu.

“So what do you do for work, John?” She asked him,

“Well, I am used to be a doctor in the army,” he took a sip of his water, “but now I’m a surgeon at Barts part-time. My friend is a detective and I help him sometimes, but mostly I just get in his way,” he chuckled.

“You seem like a very smart man, John. He must like you enough to keep you around.”

“Yes, and he puts up with my daughter,” he smiled at the thought of them home now, maybe playing the violin or searching through case file. Sherlock loved Rosie, John knew that. He saw the way his face had lit up when she called him dad, the poor man was so convinced he was a sociopath (something John knew him not to be) that he rarely ever let anyone into his life. John was glad to have been one of the lucky ones that were allowed to be.

“John, you alright?” Juliet smiled at him from the other side of the table.

“What, me? Yes, I'm fine,” he cleared his throat and tried to remember what they had been talking about.

“Well what do you--” John started to ask but was interrupted by the buzz of his mobile.

 

_ Know what happened to Travis _

_ Come to St. Barts immediately _

_ -SH _

 

John stood up quickly from his seat.

“Something wrong?” She said suddenly concerned.

“Yeah, look this was fun but I have to go,” he smiled apologetically and barely remembered to thank her as he sprinted out of the restaurant to hail a cab.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________________

 

“What is it, Sherlock?” John panted as soon as he got in the hospital.

“I have a theory,” Sherlock didn’t elaborate

They burst into the morgue without a moment to spare.

“Why are we in the morgue?” John was confused as Sherlock searched for the right body.

“You cannot just barge in here Sherlock,” Molly said from across the room, not sounding very confident.

“John, he was murdered. The shoelace we found on his workbench was used to unlock the car door, oh don’t look so surprised it was a simple deduction the middle of the string was frayed. The killer locked him in his own car and kept him inside so he would seemingly die of suicide.”

“So what does this have to do with the body?”

Sherlock opened the lock with Travis Newsome and his sheet-covered body was displayed for all three of them.

“John, he was reading the blind baker case, or whatever silly name you gave it!” He said it like the answer was obvious.

“I still don’t understand”

“Molly, can you remove the sheet up to his knees?” She did as was asked, their previous quarrel obviously still sat in her expression.

Sherlock pointed at the familiar tattoo on his ankle.

“Oh my god,” John said in shock.

The black lotus was tattooed exactly where they were so long ago.

“So the Black Lotus is back again? That's who killed him?

“Molly, bring me a cotton ball with alcohol on it.” Sherlock’s face was determined. She handed it to him right away and he began rubbing at the Black Lotus. It peeled away slowly to reveal the tattoo hidden underneath, still red around the words.

“Oh my god,” John managed to whisper.

 

_ Miss Me? _

_ -JM _

 

“JM, that's” Molly began to say.

“Jim Moriarty,” John couldn’t believe what he was seeing, “But what would Moriarty want with some random guy that went to my wedding?”

Sherlock scanned left to right, deep in thought and then his head snapped up. “John we need to get back to Baker street now!” He grabbed John’s arm and started pulling.

“What? Why?” He huffed as he was dragged across the room.

“JM, that’s not for Jim Moriarty,” he paused outside the hospital and ran into the street to flag a cabbie, “It Janine Moriarty.”  
“Janine? Sherlock, you’re mad--”  
“John, it was a distraction! She’s the one who told us about the temporary tattoos and the itchy ankles. She left out the case for us to find when she killed him.”

“But why?” They were already halfway to Baker street in the cab.

“So we would both leave the flat,” Sherlock looked visibly shaken, something he never appeared to be.

“What would she want in the--” He froze in his seat, “Rosie.”

“That's why she was asking all the questions. That’s why she was snooping around after we questioned her.”

“Yes, John.”

“Oh my god,” John screamed at the driver to go faster.

“Why would she take her!” he was breathing heavily and on the edge of a panic attack.

“Pressure points, that’s why she worked for Magnussen, so she could inform her brother of our pressure points, get information.” Sherlock swallowed. “My pressure point is you.” He looked incredibly guilty.

The cab came to a screeching halt and bith busted out of the cab doors, jamming the key into 221B. The hallway was dead quiet. John started screaming into Mrs. Hudson’s flat. “Rosie! Rosie where are you? Rosie!” He checked all the rooms and Sherlock sprinted up the stairs two at a time.

“Sherlock, who did you leave her with?” 

“Mrs. Hudson--” he started to yell down the stairs, but he saw her on their living room floor, a gash on her forehead. “John!” Sherlock called once again.

“Rosie! Rosamund!” John was frantic, he didn’t even see Mrs. Hudson being carried into Sherlock’s chair. He checked each room over and over, to no avail.

“Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Hudson can you hear me?” Sherlock placed a hand on either side of her face and she stirred.

“Lestrade get over here now!” John fumed into the phone. “Rosie!” He called once more before catching the back of his chair and falling to his knees.

There was a haunting silence in 221B. John stared slack on the wooden floor as Sherlock approached.

“John, we’re going to find her, I swear it.” He picked up John’s head in both of his hands. “God, I swear it.” 

John sagged defeated in his arms. “I made her one promise. One promise--” his voice broke and he fought back the tears.

“Me too,” Sherlock had to swallow as well, and John looked at him with certainty and trust.

“You and I against the world,” he said, suddenly stern.

“Just like it’s always been.”

The siren roared distantly outside the windows.

  
  
  
  



	3. The Lost Waltz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They have to get her back. The question is, how?

  
  
  


“You and I against the world,” John said, suddenly stern.

“Just like it’s always been,” Sherlock replied with tears in his eyes

The siren roared distantly outside the windows.

They held each other on the floor, John breaking down as he had before. He gripped Sherlock’s jacket like it was the only thing on earth keeping him from giving in to his failure and broken soul. He held on because he couldn’t let the only thing he had left be taken from him. Not again.

John didn’t notice when the paramedics and police burst through the door, but Sherlock didn’t let go when he stood, practically carrying him. He explained what happened to the police and the paramedics tended to Mrs, Hudson, gently placing her on a gurney and carrying her down the stairs.

Lestrade had been the first one in the flat, his hair in a mess like he had just woken up with panic on his face. Everyone spoke to Sherlock, he was the only one able to communicate even if he was breaking inside.

“John,” Sherlock whispered into his ear. He did not respond but gripped harder on to Sherlock and so he carried John down the stairs of the flat like a frightened child to the ambulance. They wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, which Sherlock knew wouldn’t do anything.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade said, carefully approaching them with a notepad, ”what in the hell happened?”

“Rosie has been kidnapped,” Sherlock said.

“By who?”

“Janine.”

Lestrade looked confused, “Janine, as in, Mary’s bridesmaid Janine?”

“Yes, that Janine. She is Moriarty’s sister.”

“Moriarty’s sister,” he rubbed a hand over his face, “You’ve got to be bloody joking.”

“I am afraid not.” John was still unresponsive.

“Well, we are looking around the apartment, DNA samples off door handles, everything. I think you should come and take a look.”

Sherlock nodded and began to stand, but John gripped his arm with a look of desperation.

“John, I--” he began to protest, but was interrupted by Lestrade.

“It’s ok, Sherlock, we can figure it out.” He patted his shoulder, “he needs you right now.”

Sherlock glanced cautiously at the incoherent military veteran bedsides him. John had been through so much; Being shot, PTSD, losing him, marrying an assassin and her death. He had been so strong through it all, seeking the truth and vengeance on his wrongdoer but this was it. This was the act that broke John Watson, and if it broke John, it broke Sherlock. But Sherlock couldn’t break, because John needed him just like when he was shot by Mary and had to come back because  _ John needed him _ , and if John needed him then he couldn’t break so he pulled John closer whispering silent promises in his head.

“Mr. Holmes, sir,” a paramedic came over to him. “Ms. Hudson has been taken to the hospital. Her injuries are not severe, but she will need to stay the night for observation.”

Sherlock nodded.

They sat for what felt like hours on the back of the ambulance in silence, so long in fact that John had nodded off on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Oh, brother mine,” Sherlock heard the voice and looked up at Mycroft, who was not carrying his usual umbrella. Sherlock’s deduction skills were not exactly on par tonight, but it was not hard for him to see that his brother was in disarray. Maybe to everyone else, he was pristine as usual, but Sherlock saw how his tie was slightly crooked, his cuff links were on the wrong wrists, and the genuine saddened look of pity in his brother’s eyes.

“Mycroft,” is all he said, “took you awhile to get here.”

Mycroft looked up slowly at his brother, almost ashamed. “I was in New Zealand, I came as fast as possible.”

Sherlock didn’t have to do the math. “Why?”

“Because you need my help.”

Sherlock remained silent, his usual remark about not needing help were drowned in the growing pit of his stomach.

“Sherlock, I warned you not to get involved oh so long ago.” Mycroft said coldly.

“I have been hopelessly involved since January 29th.” Sherlock looked helplessly at the broken man next to him.

Mycroft couldn’t keep the straight face anymore. For the first time in his life, he looked at his shoes for purposes other than tying them.

“I am sorry, brother mine,” he swallowed his own words, “I should have known about the other Moriarty.”

“Have you heard from Irene Adler?” Sherlock said thickly.

“No, there has been no word, though this is what I am guessing she meant by danger.”

“She must have been a part of this, I see no other reason why she would have come into London. She worked for Moriarty before, perhaps Janine was able to threaten her somehow into coming back to assist her.”

“This has been my conclusion as well.”

“Do you have any idea where she could have taken Rosamund?” Sherlock asked desperately.

“No, not the slightest, though we are checking all of the places you previously infiltrated in Moriarty's network to see if they are keeping her there.”

“I trust you know I will search on my own.”

“Yes, I know.” Mycroft attempted not to fidget with his hands behind his back, “and you know it will be dangerous,” he said a beat later.

“Take care of Mrs. Hudson for me.” He said, but Mycroft knew what he was implying.

“I will have someone with her at all times.” Sherlock simply nodded and Mycroft turned to leave. “The 29th of January,” he said his back turned. “That early on?”

The silence that followed answered his question.

 

At around 1 am, when the police were done with their investigating for the night, the drivers of the ambulance they were sitting on guiltily asked Sherlock and John to get off. Knowing John would not fall asleep again if woken, Sherlock carried him up the stairs into the flat and debated what to do with him. Putting him in his room was not an option, as the empty crib was there. Putting him on the couch was also not an option, as his shoulder flared up if he slept there. The only remaining place to put John was Sherlock’s bedroom, and so that’s what he did without a second thought. Sherlock pulled back the white sheets and gently tucked him in. When he turned to leave to sleep on the sofa, John’s grip on his arm did not cease and he tried gently to pry it off, but John had always been stronger so he sat on the edge of the bed, John’s hand in his, and traveled to his mind palace for the night.

 

____________________________________________________________________________

 

There was a deafening silence in 221B. A silence so loud it could be heard from across the street. When a home once filled with the constant babbles of an infant and warm smell of tea in the morning falls quiet and smells of dirty laundry the world takes notice. It did not take long for news of Doctor Watson’s daughter’s kidnapping to reach mainstream even though Mycroft exhausted every resource to keep it private.

Sherlock was snapped out of his thoughts to the violent thrashing of John in his sleep. Sherlock knew of his PTSD, that traumatic events would trigger his nightmares. Since his daughter being kidnapped qualified for such an event, he had deduced these nightmares were coming and prepared himself accordingly.

“John,” he said gently. The grip that had not ceased on his hand all night grew tighter. “John, wake up.”

John opened his eyes quickly and sat up straight, “Sherlock? Why are you here?” he looked around and realized he was Sherlock’s bed.

“You were in a state of shock, I could not leave you in your room or on the couch so I brought you here.”

Then John seemed to notice their hands and released his grip immediately. Sherlock stood, still in his clothes from the previous night, and turned to leave.

John rubbed his eyes as the night came back to him, and he stood instantly. He walked out of Sherlock’s room and found the man standing in front of a wild display of locations they had solved cases at.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock said to him without turning around.

“Do you have any idea--,”

“No, of course, I don’t,” Sherlock said tiredly.

“Well, we should try and get ahold of Irene Adler, maybe she has some information.”

Sherlock held up the phone that was already in his hand.

“Has she said anything?” John asked

A beat passed.

“No.”

“And Mrs. Hudson?”

“On her way home.”

They stood in silence for far too long, a tense thickness in the air until John broke it again.

“We need to go out and start searching for her.”

“Mycroft has already sent people to every place in Moriarty’s network, it would be a waste of time to go searching alone.”

“Well, I’m going alone if you don’t want to come.” He said walking to the door.

“John, wait.” Sherlock finally looked up at him, “she wants us to go looking for her. Janine wants us to find her, it’s another trap.”

“Why go through all this trouble then, why not just shoot us on the spot!” John was furious.

“Because that would be too easy.”

“Well I need to get out of the flat, so I'm going.”

“You can’t go alone John, it’s dangerous.”

“Well does it look like I bloody care?” He flung on his jacket and stomped down the stairs, gun in his pocket.

Sherlock ran two hands over his face and pulled at his hair when John was gone.

“What is the secret, what is it!” He shouted at the smiley face on the wall and turned around slowly to see the skull sitting on the mantel. He stared at it for a moment, contemplating his next move and walked to it defeated.

_ I can’t do this, I promised him I wouldn’t. _  But he was already picking it up.

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

John walked alone along the streets of London. He didn’t have a place in mind and hadn’t been tracking where he was, but he knew he had to keep walking so he did. He passed small shops and the park where a family was eating a picnic. He, Sherlock, and Rosie had done the same thing one time after John had practically begged him. It was the night Rosie said her first word, “Shwoc” which roughly translated to Sherlock. Instead of tearing up, he focused on getting back Rosie so they could have more memories like that one. 

It wasn’t until he noticed the sun starting to go down that he actually looked at his surroundings and realized he had no idea where he was. He patted for his phone in his pocket to call Sherlock, but when he turned it on there was a text from an unknown number on the lock screen.

 

_ We have much to discuss, _

_ The car should be at your location at 7:46 _

 

John looked at the time on his watch, 7:45, and looked up and down the street he was on. Sure enough, a black car pulled up as soon as his watch hit 7:46.

“Get in,” his phone read, and he obliged.

“Look, Mycroft unless you have information on Rosie I--,”   
“You always fall for that, don’t you?” Irene said next to him.

“You!” John reached for the gun in his pocket, but she grabbed his wrist.

“Listen to me, John Watson,” her voice trembled, “It is of great risk that I came here.”

“And why should I trust you, after what you did to me, to my family,” He was fuming.

“I did nothing to you.” She said

“Yeah? Then why were you in London? Why did you come here, because of it sure as hell wasn’t to help us.”

“How do you know I didn’t come to help?”

“You worked for Jim bloody Moriarty! He was your boss!”

The car started to move.

“Where in the hell are you taking me, it better be to my daughter.”   
“I did work for Jim Moriarty, but he is dead now.”

“Well his sister sure isn’t,” John huffed

“I am in debt to Sherlock Holmes,” she said, “I do not like to be in debt, I prefer people to be in debt to me.”

John laughed wildly, “of course you do. Make Sherlock Holmes fall in love with you so you can get his plans for your dear old boss.”

Irene looked at him with a sly grin, still not affected by his rage, “After all this time, you still think he loved me?”

“Think? Do I think he loved you? Of course I-- I know he loved you. Wrote all those sad songs, not to mention he saved your life.”   
“He saved my life because he couldn’t stand to fail.” She tutted, “When I died the first time, he had failed. He couldn’t have that now could he, couldn’t allow anyone he was involved with die.”

John remained silent and a beat passed.

“There have been three scenarios in his life where he failed, and someone close to him died.”

A beat of silence.

“Viktor Trevor.”

John’s eyes went wide, “how did you--,”

She smirked, “do you forget who I worked for?” John swallowed and let her continue.

“That was the first time he turned to drugs. When Viktor died, he didn’t know how to cope, so he poked his tiny arm with that needle that his brilliant mind was able to buy.”

“He started that young,” John said mostly to himself.

“Yes, and the second time was me. At least he thought it was me.”

“The danger night,”

“He wanted to find them, his coping mechanism, but you had already searched the flat. Well, at least you thought you did.”

“What do you mean we thought we did, I went through every drawer in the flat,” John said, annoyed.

She ignored his comment and kept going, “The third time was Mary Watson herself, but this one was much worse than the other two.”

John swallowed.

“No this time he had promised, he made a vow to protect your family and he failed.” She tilted her head, “He cares much more about you than he ever did me. Can you guess what he did next?”

The gears were turning in John’s head as he spoke, “drugs.”   
“Oh yes, more drugs than he had ever taken before, though you didn’t know.”

“How do you know all this about him?” John asked again, already knowing the answer.

“Really John, let’s not get distracted.” She began reaching into her bag. “Three times Sherlock Holmes failed, with three distinctly similar outcomes.” They locked eyes as she finished, “And now, a fourth.” She tucked the folded piece of paper from her purse into his coat pocket. “What can we deduce about what happens next?”

John shouted at the person driving the car, “Stop the car, stop it now!”

Irene smirked as the car stopped in front of Baker Street, which had been their destination all along. “Good luck, John,” she nodded as he got out of the car and ran to the door, paper forgotten.

 

________________________________________________________________________

 

“Sherlock!” John called, taking the steps two at a time. He yanked open the door to the flat to find Sherlock standing at the window, playing his wedding song  _ again  _ on the violin but much more violently. The strings squeaked and squealed as he pounded them mercilessly with the bow.

“Sherlock, stop.” John tried to say gently, but he just played louder. “Sherlock!”

“Not now John!” his voice was slurred, but he didn’t turn to face him.

John looked around the flat and it didn’t take long for him to see the needle next to his chair.

“Sherlock, no,” he whispered silently and the violin ceased, though the silence that followed was even louder than the strings had been.

“What have you taken?” John asked, trying to suppress the rage inside him.

Sherlock lowered the violin to his side and stared out the window, pressing his hand against it, and said, “I haven’t taken anything.”

“Don’t bull shit me, Sherlock, I see the needle right here.” Sherlock didn’t answer. “You promised you wouldn’t do this anymore.”

“I’m sorry, John,” he didn’t turn.

“This isn’t your fault, Sherlock.”

He didn’t answer again.

“I know last time, I--,” John swallowed, “I blamed you, but it wasn’t your fault. Mary chose to sacrifice herself for you and I know you would have done the same for her.”

Silence.

John stepped forward, and Sherlock flinched.

He flinched.

John froze in his spot and stared at him, forcing the tears away. Silence hung in the air for an unspeakable amount of time, but Sherlock turned around, eyes red from the drugs with a look of guilt on his face.

“I’m sorry John, I didn’t mean to--,” he stopped himself mid-sentence.

“You flinched.” Sherlock looked at him with pleading eyes. “You flinched because all I do is punch you for things that aren't your fault.” A wave of anger washed over him like none other.

“Why-” John kicked the coffee table, “Cant-,” the books on the table, “I-” his chair, “Just-    have- a- normal- life!”

Sherlock remained frozen at the window.

“John--,”

“No, no, stop it. Don’t say anything.” he put out his hand to silence him. ‘Irene Adler, that’s who I was speaking to.” his fists were in balls at his side. “Why is it that everyone can figure you out except me!”

Sherlock looked at the floor, violin still in hand.

“She told me you never loved her.” he sniffed. “Is that true?”

Sherlock blinked at him a few times. “yes,” whispered like it was hiding a deeper secret.

“Don’t give me that Sherlock, don’t give me that. You may think I’m an idiot but I’m not one!”

“Well you make it very apparent you are one!” Sherlock shouted.

“Oh, is that true?” They were standing closer. “Why, because I think you loved her? because I think you love your brother? Because I don’t buy into the lie that you’re a sociopath that doesn’t care about anyone else?”

“I never loved  _ her _ !” Emphasizing her, Sherlock gripped the violin harder, “I am a sociopath! I am!” his drug-addled mind repeated.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love Rosie!” John stated confidently, “Look me in the eye and say it.”

“I NEVER LOVED ANYONE!” He poured all his anger and heartbreak into the words, the final phrase that broke him. He raised the violin up and smashed it against the wall, over and over he slammed it like he did the coffin. The beautiful strings snapped all at once, the memories the instrument contained spilled out onto the carpet. Sherlock gripped the shattered handle and slid down the wall.

John approached slowly and sat next to him, not caring about the shattered wood around them.

“Why do you play that song, Sherlock?” he asked carefully.

Sherlock stayed silent for a moment before looking up with the most sadness John had ever seen. They were the eyes of a truly heartbroken man.

“I didn’t write it for her,” he whispered like a confession. As if it were his deepest secret.

John didn’t understand what he meant but reached out his hand. Sherlock knew what he was asking for, and so he reached in his own pocket and handed John the list of what he had taken. John bit back his words as he read.

“You should go to a hospital,” he said, already knowing the answer. Sherlock remained a broken puddle on the floor. Instead, John helped Sherlock stand and brought him to his bed, tucking him as best he could into the sheets and went into the hall to make a call. The phone barely had to ring.

“What’s the matter, John?” Mycroft's voice said.

“I have a list.”

Silence.

“I should have seen this coming,” Mycroft sighed over the line, “can you handle him for the night?”

“Yes, I think so.” John put a hand in his pocket, feeling the piece of paper he forgot about. He unfolded it slowly. “Oh, no,” he said

“What, what is it, John?” Mycroft said, concerned.

“I've just had a run in with Irene Adler, she gave me a piece of paper.”

“Well, what does it say?”   
“I don’t like this at all,” John mumbled.

 

_ The East Wind takes us all in the end. _

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

Sherlock and John were on a helicopter to Sherrinford the next morning. They tried to ignore the conversation from the previous night and sat through the ride in silence. They flashed their badges when the arrived and were led to the darkest pit of the asylum.

The cell of Eurus Holmes.

She had begun speaking again, or so they were told, and Mycroft had made a few extra visits when Sherlock had been to busy with parenting and cases.

She sat in the center of the cell. Chair facing the glass as usual.

“There once was a merchant in Baghdad” she stayed still, grinning at the glass.

“I don't have time for this, Eurus,” Sherlock said.

“You always did hate that story,” she recited as she stood and walked over to her violin. She ran a hand over it carefully, “poetic, isn’t it?” she smiled and picked it up.

“Depends on the poet,” he replied.

“I suppose the poet is death, then.” she paused, “you broke yours.” she cradled the violin.

Sherlock remained quiet.

“The emotional one you always were,” she picked up the bowstring and began to play the wedding melody.

“Stop this,” John interrupted.

“Oh, look Sherlock, god he still doesn’t know does he?” she didn’t stop playing.

“What, what is it--,” John began to say but she cut him off again.

“All in good time, John.”

  
“Where is Rosamund?” Sherlock said, firm.

“How is Molly?” She said, ignoring his question.

“Where is Rosamund Watson,” he said again..

“How did she take it?” her head tilted but Sherlock refused to answer. Her eyes traveled up and down John, who tried not to show the hatred on his face.

“Where is Rosamund Watson?” His voice had a tremor.

“So impatient,” she tutted.

“Where is she!” Sherlock demanded.

“Temper, brother mine.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock swallowed, “don’t call me that.”

She continued to smirk “How should I know where Rosamund is?”

“You told Janine Moriarty what to do with her.”

“Janine Moriarty?’ she sighed, “don’t be stupid.”

“Who, then?” John asked.

“Oh Sherlock,” she said, ignoring John. “Don’t you remember what Jim told you all those years ago?”

He looked at her with prodding eyes, “He told me lots of things.”

“Oh yes, but what was his main threat to you, Sherlock? At the pool with those bombs strapped to his chest?” She gestured to John.

Sherlock seemed to be looking in his mind palace, “burn the heart--,” he mumbled.

“Ah yes, and we all know what your heart is now don’t we Sherlock. Where you lost it all.” She smiled wickedly.

“Where is she Sherlock,” John intervened.

“Why did you do it?” Sherlock asked one more time.

“Death waits for us all in Samarra,” she nodded at him, “Don’t bring that brother of ours, Sherlock.” She said to him as he left, “you have to go alone.”

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

“Do you have your gun, John?” Sherlock asked when they got in the helicopter.

John flashed his coat.

“Leave it here,” Sherlock watched out the window.

“What?”

“We won’t be able to do this armed.”

“Where is she, Sherlock?”

“Driver!” Sherlock called, “Barts hospital!”

“Barts, why?”

“To burn the heart out of me,” Sherlock said nervously.

They arrived within minutes and hopped out of the helicopter.

“How could they get her here without the staff knowing?”

“They hid her, John.”

“Where?”

Sherlock pulled John through the hospital and they rode the elevator with heavy breathes to the roof.

“Sherlock!” Janine said with her back turned, “How good to see you.”

They walked forward carefully.

“Where is she?” John demanded.

“But the party is just starting!” She whined and began to pour glasses of champagne. “Take one, I insist,” she handed them each a flute which they knew better than to drink from.

“My brother really hated you,” she said, taking a sip from her own drink, “Told me to do this when he died. Wanted his last revenge.”

“Where is she,” Sherlock demanded again.

“I suppose he thought he had finally met his match. You must of thought you were so clever, beating him like you did.” she took another sip. “Now look at you.”

“If it’s a game you want, we’ll play,” Sherlock offered.

She laughed, “well I sure hope you would! Not like you really have a choice.”

John and Sherlock stood up straight.

She huffed, “No fun you are, alright fine. Let’s cut to the chase.” She chucked her flute behind her and the crack of glass echoed. “Follow me,” she lead them to the elevator and pushed them in. “The game is on,” she mocked and sent them down.

They watched the buttons light up as they went down in silence, feeling each floor passed as the numbers ticked down.

“John, whatever happens down there--”

“I know, Sherlock.” John stood up a little straighter.

“You’re a good father, John.”

“We’re going to get through this,” John said, ignoring Sherlock compliment.

They stood in silence until the doors opened and they were met with Irene Adler herself.

“Ms. Adler,” Sherlock said.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” her smile was plastic. “This way.” She lead them down through to the back of the basement where she gestured for them to enter a room.

“Oh my god, Rosie,” John said when they entered. She was in the arms of Janine, who had used a back way to get to the room, unconscious. John tried to go to her, but Sherlock held him back, a silent warning for what was to come.

“Here is where the game gets fun,” she smiled, and Irene came through the same entrance they had. “Now that all parties are present, we can begin the game.” Irene came closer to her. “Unlike the pointless games your sister made you play, my game only has one step and one task.” She took a gun from her pocket and aimed it at Rosie’s head.

“You bitch,” John made fists at his sides.

“I learned a lot from Charles Magnussen,” She twirled the gun on her finger, “Know your pressure points, though I didn’t need him to know anyway.”

Sherlock watched her, hands folded behind his back.

“John Watson, your flatmate. How hopelessly transparent.”  she paced around, “John, your weakness was Mary, but now,” she looked at the child in her arms, “it’s her.”

John’s eye twitched.

She gestured to both of them. “And now, well, she’s both yer pressure points.” Janine's head snapped to Irene, “And yours is Sherlock Holmes.”

Irene stood up straighter.

“Look at you all now, so quiet.” She chuckled, “Sherlock come here.”

He approached her cautiously.

“Now all you have to do,” She smiled wickedly, “is tell him.”

The room was dead quiet.

Sherlock’s eyes went wide even though he tried to hide it, and he cleared his throat.

“Tell him what?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Sherlock,”

Sherlock swallowed and steadied his gaze, “I can’t do that.”

“Well if you can’t do that,” she cocked the gun.

“Alright, alright!” his breathing sped up and he ran a hand through his hair. He looked at John with regret and fear.

“Sherlock what does she mean,” John said, bewildered.

“John, I can’t--” he squeezed his eyes shut and paced around the cement.

“Go on Sherlock, time is ticking.”

Sherlock paced frantically, eyes darting across the floor.

“Has he really not figured it out after all these years?” Irene said from across the room.

“What is it! Sherlock for god sakes!”

“John,” he held his hand over his neck.

“Tick tock, Sherlock!” Janine squealed.

“Anything else, Jaine this is ridiculous.“

“Play the game my way.”

Sherlock looked at John once more, “John--,”

Alright then,” Janine said.

Her finger began to pull.

Irene’s locked eyes with Sherlock. She said everything she needed to say at that moment with her eyes, and she leaped forward, toppling Janine to the ground as she grabbed Rosie from her arms as the gun shot rang through the chamber.

Sherlock and John sprinted forward. John snatched Rosie, who had woken up from whatever Janine had done to her and held her close in his arms searching for injuries.

 

“Rosie, darling,” John pulled her head to his shoulder and she cried into him.

Sherlock knelt next to Irene, who had turned the gun at the last moment to shoot her instead. Janine lay dead on the ground next to them, as the bullet passed through her too.

“I suppose you were right,” she whispered meekly, “love is dangerous.”

There was a beat where she went silent, her eyes were draining of life but she did not look afraid. “John,” she called out once more. He placed Rosie on the floor and came to her. “He never did love me,” she smiled as the life left her eyes, “he loves you.”

The room was dead silent. Even Rosie knew better than to make a sound. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the basement floor, horrified at what he would find if he met John’s eyes.

“Irene,” John said, feeling her empty pulse.

There was so much to be said, so much that had remained hidden for so long, but John knew they couldn’t do this here. Couldn’t do this now, so he stood up on legs of jelly.

“We need to get Rosie home, and we can’t leave her here, come on Sherlock, up.” John didn’t dare to touch him, but Sherlock stayed frozen on the floor, so John backed away slowly and picked up his traumatized daughter in his arms.

“Come on Sherlock, please,” his voice shook as he said the words.

“John,” Sherlock began to say.

“Not now, Sherlock,” his voice was stiff like a soldiers, but tears were in his eyes.

______________________________________________________________________________

 

After calling Lestrade and taking a silent cab ride back to Baker street, the two separated and traveled to their own rooms. John checked Rosie over for injuries, which she had not retained, and put her to bed, a golf ball size lump in his throat as he did so, planning out his words carefully.

When he had finally changed and showered, he traveled down the stairs slowly, gripping the railing like a lifeline. He saw Sherlock standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back in blue silk robe. He remained quiet, even though John was sure he had heard him come down the stairs.

“What would you like me to say, John,” Sherlock finally said, sounding defeated.

John cleared his throat, “a lot of things.”

“Mmm,”

Silence again.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Sherlock?”

“I couldn’t ruin what we had. Balance of probability suggested, and still suggests, that you would pack up and leave immediately of I did so, therefore I kept my mouth shut.”

“How long?”

Sherlock seemed taken aback by this question.

“When did you realize?”

“January 29th, 2010.”

“My god,” John swallowed back the tears, “that’s-”

“The day we met.” Sherlock finally looked up at him, eyes scared and helpless.

“So at the wedding, that’s why you left early?” John blinked furiously.

Sherlock nodded slowly.

“And when you were leaving for eastern Europe,” John’s hand remained firm as he gripped the back of his chair.

“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name,” they both said at the same time.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, “It would be wrong of me to tell you then. I wanted to part on good terms. He paused and picked up a shattered piece of violin, pursing his lip. “I wanted to see you smile one more time.”

John broke.

He approached slowly and timidly, heart pounding wildly in his chest. Sherlock remained still and defeated, but watched him approach. Just like Sherlock had done, John pulled him into an embrace, but instead of tucking his head like before, he gently pulled Sherlock head down. They stared for what felt like minutes, all the words forever unspoken pouring through their eyes, and so John closed the gap between them.

It wasn’t long or intense. It wasn’t a grand swath of desire. It was raw emotion and years of unspoken words. It was the first time they met. It was 57 text messages that John had in fact counted. It was the fall from the roof. It was his grand return.

It was all of John and all of Sherlock and they both pulled away from the kiss overwhelmed.

“Your deduction was wrong,” John said, leaning their foreheads together.

Sherlock smiled widely and they both began to laugh. They laughed like they had before in the hallway all those times, high off what they thought were cases and adrenaline but was really just time spent together.

“Mrs. Hudson will be pleased,” Sherlock said.

“I think she knew all along,” John smiled again.

“Mrs. Hudson is never wrong.”

They pulled away from their embrace, happiness buzzing through the air.

“Why do you play my wedding song?” John asked.

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, looking defeated all over again. “I never wrote it for her.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I wrote it when we first met. It was originally intended to be--” he cleared his throat, “our wedding song.” He looked ashamed.

John smiled sadly and rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?” Sherlock inhaled deeply.

“For letting me be your flatmate.”

 

______________________________________________________________________________

  
  


“It took you long enough,” Mycroft said, letting himself into the flat holding the latest newspaper.

“Thank you for your words of encouragement, Mycroft,” Sherlock said into his tea.

“Oh boys, won’t you please just be nice to each other for once!” Mrs. Hudson scolded, handing Mycroft a cup of tea.

“Oh, no Mrs. Hudson, I’m not--” Mycroft began to refuse but Sherlock gave him the evil eye. “Thank you for the tea.” he nodded at her and took a hesitant sip.

John and Sherlock were sitting in their respective chairs, Rosie tucked under John’s arm.

“Uncew Myrof,” She smiled, waving at him.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at John, who laughed.

“Always knew it would happen didn't we,” Mrs. Hudson tapped Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Yes, well, my brother has always been the one to get attached.”

“You two both knew?”

“Of course we did, John, you read like an open book.” She patted his hand. John furrowed his eyebrows.

“I come here on a separate matter, brother mine.” Mycroft said, setting his untouched tea on the table.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes, why would you come to congratulate your brother on his relationship, that’s so unlike you.”

Mycroft ignored his comment and pressed on. “There has been a package sent to your name.”

“Well?” Sherlock took a sip of tea.

“It’s from the will of Irene Adler.”

Sherlock dropped the mockery now. “Well, what is it?”

Mycroft literally snapped his fingers and a man came up the stairs with a box in hand.

“You’re actually snapping your fingers now? God you really are getting older.”

Mycroft nodded to the package and sighed.

Sherlock picked it up carefully, all eyes in the room trained on the box. He opened it slowly, and pulled out the contents with great gentleness. It was a beautiful, hand crafted Stradivarius violin.

He held it in his hands and ran his fingers over the strings, admiring it as if it were the most important thing in the world. Without a word he took the bow and began to play.

“I think i’ll be leaving then,” Mycroft said while walking over to John. “Thank you, John,” he smiled and nodded. John knew what he meant. “It was about time.”

Mycroft made it down the stairs to find Mrs. Hudson in her kitchen.

“Thank you for watching him for all these years,” Mycroft said.

“Oh it’s really no bother. I love them even though they can be quite wild.”

He kissed her cheek and left.

 

______________________________________________________________________________

 

That night, after Rosie had been put to bed, Sherlock began to play the waltz while John read.

John placed his book on the side table and stood. He walked over and slowly placed a hand on his, guiding them to the middle of the room. They kept their eyes locked as John began to dance to a song that didn’t have to be playing for them to know what it was.

They danced in a slow pace, simply appreciating being in each other's arms, allowing the music in their heads tp flow through them. Sherlock closed his eyes and squeezed back the emotion, gripping harder. There they danced, chest on chest, breath upon breath until their hearts were woven into one by the music.

When it was over, they kissed under the sliver of moonlight that came through the window.

“Sherlock is actually a girls name,” John said.

“Yes, we’ve addressed this.” Sherlock digs his head into John’s shoulder.

“I just realized what it would be.”

“And what have you deduced?”

“If I named my daughter Sherlock, her name would have been Sherlock Watson.”

“Fabulous deduction, John, truly.”

“You were showing it all along, and I just didn’t see it.”

“I think it could work,” Sherlock smiled and kissed his cheek.

“Does have a ring to it doesn’t it?” They both chuckled.

 

And so, in the moonlight of the flat, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson remained. Just like they always had been and always will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Comments keep me going and are greatly appreciated. :) Thanks again


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